Barbie was born after World War II,
in the midst of tis consequences-disgruntled women
back in their United States’ kitchens. Barbie’d
only heard of the over-sea’s atrocities, but was more certain
she was reincarnated with each horror story, with each little pang
of her deja-vu. Her Aryan air, the ease in
which her arm, unable to bend at the elbow,
would salute. The terror when she saw a pile
of dolls like herself, naked and dirty, in the mass grave of a toy chest.
Barbie sought hypnotists and heaters,
who all saw the connection, though none could be sure
whether in her past Barbie was the Nazi or the Jew.
-Denise Duhamel
Playing with Poetry 